


Comin' Up From Behind

by ballpoint



Category: Scandal (TV)
Genre: Adultery, Angst, Canon Character of Color, Canon Gay Character, F/M, Female Character of Color, Female Friendship, Platonic Relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-11
Updated: 2013-03-11
Packaged: 2017-12-05 00:23:05
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,516
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716737
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ballpoint/pseuds/ballpoint
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>When Olivia Pope agreed to continue her affair with Fitz Grant, she instituted a fail safe.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Comin' Up From Behind

**Author's Note:**

> This follows spirit of bipartisanship (per 1shara's request), but this story can be read as a stand alone. It's more a character study of the players in the campaign than being driven by plot.

Olivia opened her eyes a fraction, squinting at the light streaming in the room. Grunting, because she hated early mornings, even though her body clock was irrevocably primed for it from early morning swim team practice and drills, she slipped her hand under her pillow and fished out her phone. Another habit drummed into her by both Cyrus and Verna. _Always keep your phone on,_ Verna counselled, _the one time people can’t get in touch with you, that’s the time they’ll go to someone else, and may never come back_. 

Cyrus’ advice had been pithier, but the gist was the same: Keep the phone on. Always.

Not that she’d been getting any much of sleep, not since the night before the prayer breakfast. 

_Just go into your room and close the door, and we’ll pretend this never happened_. 

Oh, God, Olivia pressed her hands to her eyes, trying to block out the images, and sounds they had made. 

_No words, not for this. Words could be parsed, a lie uttered in the moment, but you couldn’t deceive through touch. Her skin hypersensitive, the scald of tongue along the column of her neck. His fingers splayed along the length of her back, lowering her to -_  
“Enough,” Olivia hissed to herself. Looking at the time of day on her smartphone, she scrambled out of bed, and beat a straight path to the shower. She had things to do. 

***

“Abe Butterfield withdrew from the race today,” Cyrus greeted as Olivia stepped into their temporary campaign office digs. Around Cyrus and Olivia interns and various volunteers for the campaign swarmed. Running around for photocopies, posters, some of them phone canvassing at the desks. The office a din of activity and action rather than a hum, but Olivia ignored the background, and focused on Cyrus. “That’s good for us, since his stance was nearer to Fitz’s than Langston’s. We can avoid split votes.”

“He’s not a strong enough candidate to throw his weight behind Fitz,” Olivia mused, as she skimmed across the screen of her tablet, eyeing the article in question. “We can woo his voters, but I’d hold off on getting him on the Grant bandwagon.”

“What do you know, Liv?” Cyrus leaned in, his interest keen, a fellow conspirator. 

“What do _you_ know, Cy?” Olivia tilted her head in his direction, wanting to know if his gossip jibed with hers. It paid to keep her hand in, and gave Abby in DC something to focus her mind on- apart from baking the best baklava this side of Turkey. 

Cyrus rolled his eyes, pursed his lips, his unhappiness plain. “Fitz has been wanting us to play the campaign above board, win or lose. So let’s just say, I’m glad that Butterfield did the honourable thing.”

“You didn’t have anything to do with him dropping out?” 

“Scout’s honour,” Cyrus raised his hand to shoulder height, before allowing to to drop at his side. They fell into step as they walked out of the office, into the passageway, and made their way down to the smaller rooms. “Wouldn’t it be something if everyone just rolled over and allowed him to win?”

“Wrong party,” Olivia shot back. 

“True, but the Democrats aren't tied to their bibles and guns. Rumblings about a videotaped ceremony of one of them sky-clad at a Pagan orgy wouldn’t cause pulses to jump. Well, people expect it from the other side.”

“Which is why it always goes off like fireworks when it’s from your side.”

“Our side.”

Olivia scoffed, shooting Cyrus a glare. Cyrus absently rubbed at his thinning plate, the gesture causing his hairs to stand up. “I forget, you’re _apolitical_ ,” Cyrus waved her point away. “You’d rather stand on the outside of power than seize it. Liv, I wish you had more ambition.”

“Cy,” Olivia smiled at him sweetly. “I wish you had more imagination.”

“We all have our blind spots.”

“We do,” Olivia agreed. “About today’s agenda-”

“Before we do,” Cyrus stopped, eyes sweeping up and down the hall before he stepped towards her, and got into her space. “What do you think about Fitz’s stance?”

“About what? Immigration, the economy or-” 

“That playing above board, win or lose thing.”

“It’s very _Mr Smith Goes to Washington_. It’s -” _sweet_ , she wanted to say, her cheeks warming at the mention of his name, but she stayed on script. “It’s a good handle, and clever and -” she gave up on all pretense at this point, seeing his face in her mind’s eye just as clearly as she could see Cyrus standing in front of her. “He’s decent. He stands out. He has that _it_ , Cy, he’s just -he just needs to be sharpened. His way can be done, we just need to change the rules of the game.”

Cyrus slipped one hand in his pocket, with the other one he tapped his index and middle finger at his chin, deep in thought. “We’re singing from the same hymn sheet,” he half sang, half hummed. “That’s good, that’s good Liv. So we’re thinking, ‘Sixty Minutes’?”

“And _The New York Times_ , if we can.”

“Too left of our guy.”

“Still influential to the middle of the road voters who’ll be looking at third party candidates. The new media - twitter, Huff Po and the rest, they’ll just pick it up and link it via aggregate. He’ll get out there. We get _Wash Po_ to balance it out a little. I want us to give Fox news a pass for now, he isn’t strong enough, and I don’t want him scaring off the middle of the roaders.”

“All right, let’s go see our boy.”

***

Olivia found Mellie Grant to be a formidable woman.

Naturally whip smart, because you didn’t get to be in the top two percentile at Harvard, and be first in Yale law in her year just by hitting the books: a tough, supple, flexible mind was needed as well. Her beauty didn’t hurt either, all Boston Brahmin, with a dollop of southern flavour; thick sable hair streaming over shoulders, eyes of sea foam green under well groomed eyebrows, a flattering contrast to her creamy complexion; the cleft in her chin an interesting feature to an already great face, complete with a bearing that never faltered. Back straight as she sat at the edge of the chair, her hands loosely clasped in her lap, her legs tucked to the right and crossed at the ankles. In the plain surroundings of the campaign headquarters, Mellie stood out; a bejeweled encrusted goblet at a frat party of red solo cups. 

Mellie and Fitz were well matched: a handsome couple who had done well for themselves, and by dint of their presence, an unwritten understanding of them bring their good fortune for these United States as well. Fitz sat to his wife’s right, his features remote, his legs crossed. Olivia tried to make it a point of not looking at him, although she couldn’t help stealing glances. He was dressed in the Presidential ‘down time’ clothing of dark blue sweater, over a white shirt, with collar and cuffs showing. Dark slacks, and shoes that could be described with the tagline, “For the urban jungle.” His hair styled (she remembered waking up beside him- the morning after, and it being sleep and sex mussed), his face shaved and set into a neutral expression. 

_Stop it_ , Olivia told herself. _Focus on the task at hand. Distractions can be fatal_

Mellie telegraphed her emotions like semaphore flags, and Olivia felt the storm clouds of her mood swirling around the room. With each line of the situation spelt out, Mellie’s eyes slitted, and her gaze became even more arctic. Olivia caught Cyrus’ eye and his imperceptible nod. 

“ _Live with Kelly and Michael_?” Mellie’s mouth made a moue of distaste at the suggestion.

“Yes, _Live_ ,” Cyrus interjected, a presence by the window sill. “Since your miscarriage, women want to know more about you. You’ve campaigned across the Southern states, which we thank you for, but now we need to take it to the next level and introduce you to the American people properly.”

“Fitz gets _Sixty Minutes_ , probably the cover of _Time_ , an article in the _Washington Post_ -”

“You get _The View_ , _Vanity Fair_ and few other shows of interest,” Cyrus interjected, moving from the window as he walked around to where Mellie was seated. “Mellie,” Cyrus started, the notes in his voice comforting, as if speaking to a petulant child. “This is high profile as it gets. _Vogue_ reads as too deviant to the base.”

“And to contribute a recipe as a spouse for the candidate to _People_.”

“Because you’re running for First Lady, Mellie. It’s a matter of -”

“Knowing my role?” Mellie spat through set teeth. 

“I was going to say ‘tradition’, but since you brought it up-”

“Mellie,” Olivia raised her hand in Cyrus’ direction, and he gave a casual salute, fingers flicking to touch his forehead and then away, handing off the play to her. Olivia perched at the edge of her chair, which was positioned opposite Mellie and Fitz. “Super Tuesday is on its way. So far, you’ve done good work in shoring up the Grant image. Think of it as moving beyond damage control and into building up a brand. Like it or not, your brand is First Lady, Mom-in-Chief.”

Mellie made her eyes bored, dropping her eyelids, and tilting her head to the side. In a breath, she transformed into an expression of pure hauteur, a Queen sneering at the advice of the wise men in her court. With an aplomb that Olivia could only admire, Mellie shifted her attentions from Cyrus and Fitz, and directed them to her. 

“Liv,” Mellie began, raising her hands off her lap, her rings catching the light. The cut and colour of the stones so pure, the refracted light seemed like spots of coloured stars on her hands. She’d have to get rid of those, Olivia decided, especially the yellow gold ring with the amethyst, aquamarines and peridots, that was too individual. She could keep the wedding ring. Emerald cut diamond set in the hard white of platinum but the others - the fine cluster of rubies and emeralds on the index and middle fingers of her right hand - they’d have to go. 

“Liv, we’re women here,” she continued, tones warm and conversational, schooling her features into something pleasant. Olivia leaned forward, intrigued with Mellie despite - everything. “Women of substance, women with degrees, and varying interests. I don’t wish to be difficult, but to put me on a show like _Live_ , you decrease my substance. I-” she cut herself off, forming her right hand into a fist, before opening her fingers and making them waggle, the stones firing in the light. “I can do more,” Mellie touched her hand to her chest, lightly tapping against her sternum with the tips of her fingers for emphasis. “I’m so much more.”

“Mellie, if _you_ were running for President, I could accept your reasoning. It’s just that, right now, the role you’re looking to audition for is mom-in-chief. You’re the barometer for the American mood; the national cheerleader. You’re the one who tells children to exercise, speaks about libraries and soft services in danger of local state cuts. You do _not_ advocate your own policies, but give your full throated support for your husband’s. Hillary Clinton didn’t play ball at first, and she got raked over the coals in the press. Since then, every First Lady has had to be less-”

“Less.” The ‘s’s were sibilants, the word a live and malicious presence on Mellie’s tongue. 

“Less ambitious,” Olivia finished. “It is how it is. All roads lead to our candidate, Mellie. We can’t have you going off the reservation, not now. If we get into the White House, we can craft the framework of a policy for you, parallel to the Governor’s time at the Oval, but until then-”

“ _Live with Kelly and Michael_.” 

“And _Vanity Fair_ as a standby if we're on top of Super Tuesday. And a family recipe for _People_.”

“Fine.” Mellie spat after a few seconds. “I’ll do it. I hope you’re satisfied, Fitz.”

“Mellie-”

“That’s what you want, isn’t it?” she hissed, banked fury making her face glow, her fingers splayed into claws, before she drew them inward, palms facing. “Me, the good wife. This is why you had to call me to the principal’s office. For Liv and Cy to set me straight- because you _couldn’t_?”

“Mellie,” Fitz shifted, made to reach for her hand, only to do a smooth segue into the motion of running it over his hair, because she pulled away from his touch. Her eyes blazed as brightly as the jewels on her fingers as she faced Olivia. “No,” Fitz answered wearily, as he slumped into the sofa and covered his eyes with the palm of his hand. “No, I didn’t bring you in here so that they could -”

“It’s fine,” Mellie cut in, visibly pulling herself together, and in seconds, composed and distant as an ice floe. “Set up the meetings, do whatever you people do. I’ll be ready.”

“And your recipe?” Cyrus asked. 

“It will be ready.” Mellie pushed herself to her feet, her hands smoothing the wrinkles from the skirt of her dusky pink twin set. “From the marsh to the table,” she fluttered her eyelashes, her smile dazzling, and drawl of voice Southern sweet. “Stuffed duck with orange and cranberry glaze, just like my momma’s cook used to make when daddy and I came back from the hunt.”

With that, she swept out of the room, leaving the trio of Cyrus, Fitz and Olivia frozen in their spots, unable to speak for a moment. 

Cyrus, ever the first to move, started to pace. Olivia stayed in her chair, her eyes briefly noting the space where Mellie sat, before shifting to Fitz. Noted the sag of his body against the cushions, a picture of exhaustion, and she felt for him. Campaigning was arduous enough, with all the potholes of various gotcha questions, an overactive media zealous for something on the twenty four news cycle, running to keep up with Langston and the rest of the candidates ahead of the scythe of the primaries cutting those off with less of everything - Mellie’s behaviour now had to be considered a part of the worry. 

“Her problem is, she’s too smart for the job. Mellie is a great woman, but in the wrong party,” Cyrus groused, turning his full attention towards Fitz. “Couldn’t you have gotten with a socialite, a highly functioning drunk, her world limited to the glass in her hand, or even the Hannah Homemaker type?”

Fitz dropped his hand from his face, his eyes on Olivia, his half smile self mocking. Still handsome, and the _draw_ still there, her lips trembling into a faint curve when Fitz finally said, “Unfortunately for you Cy, I like my women smarter than me.”

“Hmm,” Cyrus nodded, knowing a good sound bite when he heard one, whipped his blackberry out of his pocket and started tapping at the keys. “I like that. That’s gold. Women will love that.”

“I’ll get on arranging the interviews for print and TV. Run though with Mellie on what to say where, and see she gets more women on side.” Olivia got up, feeling the tug of Fitz’s gaze on her, looked into his eyes, saw questions that they had yet to voice and share. 

“That’s good, that’s good, we’ll touch base later.” Cyrus’ voice fading away into nothingness as Olivia and Fitz still stared at each other, unable and unwilling to be the first to break each other’s stare.

Two

“How goes campaigning?” Abby asked, her voice bright and bouncy in Olivia’s ear.

“It goes. Anonymous hotel rooms, sandwiches in saran wrap, guzzling antacids like water,” Olivia leaned against the side of the bus, enjoying the chilled twilight of the evening, and the odd quiet as all reporters and staff vacated the bus to spend the night in a hotel. “I’m seeing parts of the US that I haven’t seen before, so that’s nice.”

“And your candidate?”

“He’s nice too.”

“ _Republican_.” In her mind’s eye, Olivia could see Abby’s features contorted into a sneer. 

“Abby-”

“I know, I know. It’s a favour for Cyrus,” Abby said on the other line. “You’re always going around dispensing favours for everyone, like some fairy godmother. If it’s not sticking me in your home, making the recipe for the best baklava you’ll ever have, it’s you with Cyrus Beene. Never mind the fact that Republicans-”

“ _Abby_.” Olivia cut in, her voice firmer this time. A lull in the conversation for a few seconds, before she heard the clink and clatter of cutlery and crockery. Abby gathered her thoughts while cleaning up. Olivia didn’t mind the small bakery Abby seemed to be running in her kitchen, because she kept their surroundings as clean as a nun. 

“I know, I know,” Abby spoke again, her voice sharp with almost tears. Olivia closed her eyes, waited for Abby to gain some composure. On a breath, Abby did, and launched into her spiel, her voice gathering strength and heat with each word. “You’re _apolitical_ , yet to be moved by any candidate or cause. _Apolitical_ . You should put that down in the box that asks you what your religion is, Liv. ‘Catholic, Baptist, Muslim or Jedi?’ No, thank you, I’m _apolitical_ !”

“You’re better.” Olivia laughed lightly, too happy to be offended as one weight lifted from her heart. “If you can lecture me, you’re better.”

“I’m also making the best bread ever. I know it’s Saturday and not my usual day but live a little, right?”

Before Olivia could answer, she felt his presence. Phone in hand, she slowly turned around, and faced her candidate. Fitz Grant, still in the clothing from their meeting with Mellie, but in deference to the chill of the late summer’s evening, a light jacket thrown over his sweater and slacks. His eyes on her, and seeing everything - her scarf with the colours of his campaign angled jauntily around her neck, Michael Kors jacket with leather elbow patches, snug jeans and wedged boots. The way how he looked at her, with naked and _blatant_ desire. Like that night they spent together in the hotel room. When he held her wrists, and waited for her to settle, to react. 

“Finally, I found out why my jam was so runny. Not enough pepsin. ‘D-uh’, right?”

“Abby, I have to go.” 

“Fine,” Abby replied as nonchalantly as she could. Olivia knew that when it came to emotions, Abby functioned on a scale of eleven out of ten. “Here’s hoping your candidate doesn’t get a _September surprise_ on Super Tuesday.” 

“Night, Abby.” Olivia disconnected with a click, not waiting for Abby to follow up with a response. 

“Ms Pope,” Fitz greeted her, hands in pockets. After an intense debriefing with Cyrus over the nuts and bolts of the campaign, he was glad to escape, like a student fleeing from the class at the end of detention. He’d grabbed a snicker bar and a bottle of water on the way out, heading to the hotel’s gardens- anywhere but in the same hotel as Mellie and Cyrus- not today- but on a whim, decided to head for the hotel car park instead. Along with the smokers, no one would ever find him there, and since he wasn’t that high profile of a candidate yet to be assigned secret service protection, Fitz decided to take his freedoms where he could. 

As he drew nearer to the bus, he sighted Olivia, his steps quickened as he moved towards her, noting Olivia pacing to and fro in lines while speaking on the phone. The serious set of her face drew him to her, and when she smiled; a fond, affectionate thing, all unguarded and gentle, his heart lurched and sputtered to a stop. His pace slowed, as he took her all in. Her bangs making her look more like a schoolgirl than the power player she’d proven herself to be. Her dark jacket and trousers hinted at the professional she was, but he’d already seen, felt, and kissed the body underneath. Small of frame, and perfectly made. 

“Governor,” she greeted, disconnecting the call with a press of the button, and slipping her phone into her pocket. 

“Urgent call?”

“No,” Olivia crossed her arms under her breasts, and leaned against the bus, lowering her lashes as she took her phone from her pocket and started playing with its buttons. “Just - my friend. She’s baking the best baklava this side of Turkey.”

“And voting for me, right?” 

“No,” Olivia laughed, the sly sound of it tugging at his blood. “I’m afraid not. There are some votes that you’ll never get, and she’s one of them. We’ll have to work on the votes that you can.”

“Contrary to popular belief- be it you, Cyrus or even my wife, I am aware of how campaigns are run.”

“California, with your lineage? You’d have been a fool if you’d lost California, Governor Grant. The country on the other hand is a different beast.”

How, he thought, how perverse was his make up that he found her dismissals and put downs a turn on? 

“Do tell, Ms Pope,” he said, hands in his pockets. 

“A moderate Republican in California is practically a Democrat below the Mason-Dixie line. On Fox news, they’re this close to calling you in the same breath as Governor Reston. If they call your name at all.”

“As long as they spell my name right.”

Olivia laughed, and Fitz considered that a victory. Once you got someone to laugh, it meant that they were still listening. That Olivia was still listening.

“Right,” she nodded. “We can do a lot with your name as long as the press spells it correctly.”

“Olivia,” he said, taking a step towards her, and she moved along the side of the bus, further towards the front, and away from the lights of the car park.

“How did your meeting with Cyrus go?” she asked, slipping her phone into her pocket, focusing her eyes on him.

“Boring.” In two strides, he stood in front of her, his arms on either side of her body, but not too close to spook her. Olivia carried on speaking, as if what they were talking about was important to the here and now. 

“You don’t have to attend every meeting. Especially the lower level ones.”

“I don’t attend every meeting, but if I’m having people doing their damndest to get me elected, the least I can do is say thanks.”

“A politician saying thanks,” a flash of teeth again, and yeah, he found her slight overbite sexy, so sue him. “That’s good, we can use that.”

He opened his mouth to say something, only for words to desert him as he stroked her jaw with his fingers. The moment had all the ingredients for magic: the twilight shifting to the deep dusk of evening, her face shifting and blending into shadows, Olivia mysterious and distant, the thrum of heat between them, and they hadn’t even kissed as yet. It felt - the same. Even better, because he knew what this feeling was; as heady as his first flight, feeling the ground drop away from him for the first time. This emotion as certain as anything he’d been certain of in his life, the ground under his feet, the dark brown of her eyes. 

He was looking at her. At her. 

Olivia tried to look away, but couldn’t. This? This wasn’t a fluke. Not when her skin felt aflame, and he only touched her with a finger. 

“I miss you,” he said, touching his forehead against hers, their bodies rocking to and fro, as if they found music in the blare of the traffic, beyond the thick hedge of the car park. 

Olivia, because she didn’t trust herself to speak at this minute, lifted her arms around his neck, twisted her fingers in his hair, and drew him to her. Moaned as his hands slid under her jacket, tugged her T-shirt from her belted trousers, broad palms sliding from her waist, up to her ribs, thumbs brushing the sides of her breasts. Nothing mattered but his breath in her ear, his tongue tracing the shell of her ear, his thumb flickering at her nipple, her bra askew. 

“Liv-” he rasped, and she pressed her mouth against his, her hand skimming down his side, fingers sliding along the waistband of his slacks, as she tugged his belt loose. Their kisses frantic, and each slide of tongues a surrender; a sacrifice to everything. His hands branding her with every touch and - 

“Not here,” she yanked her mouth from his, leaving a gossamer sheen of spit in its wake. She wanted to burn around Fitz, with him encased in her. 

“Inside.” Olivia said, gratified when the split second of confusion passed, as he looked at where they were. “Inside,” he agreed. 

She’d have bruises in the morning, an abstract observation before being crowded against the cramped sofa on the campaign bus, her clothes melting off with every touch. Olivia didn’t care, her jeans around her ankles as she opened herself to Fitz. Finesse could wait, oh _God_ it could wait, her eyes closed against the nip of his teeth on her clavicle. She palmed his length, guiding him into her, her gasps and hitches of breath swallowed by his mouth. He tasted like caramel, with the grit and smoke of peanuts. Olivia wiggled her hips, trembling as he moved in her, bucking against him as he brought his fingers into play. 

Her climax ripped through her, thick and fast; her desire consuming her whole. For an infinite time (but not long enough), she flew, hovered, exploded. Fitz a delicious weight on top of her, pressing her into the sofa. In the dim light, she stared at him, packing this moment into her heart. When - when this was over, this would warm her. Fitz’s face contorted with the heat they shared, the flex and shift of his shoulders and triceps as he pulled her against him. His skin gleaming with effort and sweat, and she reached for him, her fingers wiping his forehead, only for him to press his forehead against hers. Her hips meeting his, before he paused for a second, the blue of his eyes a thin rim around his dilated pupils as he exploded, filling her with everything. 

“I wish,” Fitz said later, much later, as their bodies cooled, as he shifted on his forearms to look down at her. “I wish I could just wal-”

“You can’t.” Olivia said, cutting in before he gave words to the emotions crowding her heart. “There’s so much behind this campaign. Money, time, strategy. To just walk away would be tantamount to suicide.”

“I know,” he stroked at her hairline with his thumb. “I’m running for President, and-” he bit his lips, as if holding back what he wanted to say. Olivia raised her fingers to brush a shock of unruly hair from his forehead. He touched his forehead to hers, and kissed her. Lingering, soul deep, still with heat, but none of the desperation they shared before. Olivia sighed, before giving herself over and sinking into the depths of it, hoping it showed what she couldn’t say. Too soon, he moved off her, got to his feet, scooped up her jacket and shirt and handed them to her. Olivia pushed herself from the sofa, swung her feet to the ground, wincing at her skin sticking to the leather, and absently mopped up their tell tale evidence from the sofa. 

“I’m sorry, Olivia.”

“No need,” Olivia shrugged into her jacket, buttoned it up. Wrapped her t-shirt into a tight ball and stuffed it in the pocket of her jacket. “It just happens. I’m just surprised the bus was open.”

“No one steals a campaign bus,” Fitz said. “Besides, the carpark is hell to get into- you can’t see it from the highway.”

“Right. Lucky for us.” Olivia got up, shimmied into her panties, and jeans, wincing at the coldness between her thighs. She’d clean up once she made it back to her hotel room. 

“Olivia-” Fitz grabbed at her arm. “I-”

“Please, no.” Olivia shook her head, because she knew what he wanted to say. He couldn’t say it because then she’d have to accept it and where would she be? Fitz must have seen something in her face, because he dropped his hand from her arm, and stepped back. Grabbing her phone, she tugged her boots on, socks and phone in her hands. Olivia ran from the bus and towards the safe anonymity of her hotel room. 

Three

 _Super Tuesday!_ , the pundits announced it with the grit and eagerness of announcers at a wrestling match. Every single station they turned to had Fitz Grant and Sally Langston’s pictures side by side, with their various details about their time in office, the positions served, scrolling through vignettes about their families, and highlights of them on the trail so far. It reminded Olivia of sports shows, where they sized up the teams before they took to the field

The TV station set to a local ABC affiliate, with two evening anchors speaking about the candidates. Keith Fischer and Maggie James were a popular pair, with great chemistry and a gift of breaking down the arcane science of campaigning to the sexiness of celebrity gossip. 

“Pundits have expressed surprise at Governor Grant’s campaign gaining so much ground. He's coming up from behind, and now almost there, like an eightball. Keith, what do you think might have been behind Governor Grant getting all this traction?”

“What we’ve seen with Governor Grant is this, once you get to know him, you can’t help but to like him. It’s just that the people didn’t know him, and his message wasn’t getting through. All we knew at the first sight was the fact that he was _not_ Sally Langston. Not so far right not re issues like gay marriage, immigration, but we didn’t know what he was _for_. Running up to Super Tuesday, he’s spelt out what his positions are, and people are listening.”

“By the end of today, we’ll find out if Governor Grant did enough to pip Sally Langston to the chase. She’s heavily favoured to win.”

“And you like her.” Keith grinned at his co anchor, who picked up her pen and started to write something in the margins of her paper. “I like her sass, and there’s always something exciting about a woman making a launch towards the White House.”

The co anchors shared a laugh before telling their viewers to stay on this channel before they went to break. 

“I’m half expecting the newscasters to yell, ‘Let’s play ball’.” Cyrus muttered as they sat in the staff mess, waiting on the returns to come in. On the table in front of them were a bottle of red wine, a pair of glasses and two bowls of popcorn. Plain and cheese flavoured. 

“I’m so glad you’re here, Liv,” Cyrus grabbed her hand, and held it between his. Olivia briefly squeezed her fingers against Cyrus’, before she leaned against his shoulder, her eyes on the TV as she whispered, “There’s no other place I’d be.” 

Cyrus briefly pressed his lips to the crown of Olivia’s head, as they curled up on the couch and turned to the TV. 

“Do you think we did enough?” 

“Just about,” Olivia said, and it wasn’t an idle boast, just fact. “We’ve gone from dead in the water to a dead heat.”

“My political nun, no one reads the runes of crisis management like you do.” Cyrus said with an affectionate grin, as he broke away from her, poured the already open wine into glasses. “Kidnapper Cliffs Cabernet Sauvignon 2009,” he handed her a glass, and she took a sip. The wine was a lovely bouquet of herbal and fruit notes. On paper, it shouldn’t have worked, but on her tongue, it was heaven. 

“We’re going to get drunk either way,” Cyrus said, before taking a gulp of his wine. “Win or lose, we are going to get drunk.”

“Okay.”

“To our man, our candidate, Fitzgerald Grant III, soon to be our forty fourth President of these United States-”

“I’ll drink to that.” Olivia lightly touched her glass to Cyrus’, before taking another sip. Cyrus now perched at the edge of the sofa, and he scratched the nape of his neck. “If he gets through the primaries, we’ll have to work smarter to make sure that he takes the White House.”

“That’s - we’re good, Cy, but there’s only so much we can do.”

“We’ll be better, because we better be better.” his eyes, normally a warm blue grey, momentarily became frigid. Olivia nodded her agreement, not offended by his brusque manner, because winning was the point. 

Their patience bore fruit as the returns rolled in. Over the explosion of confetti, and the begrudging concession call of Sally Langston, the returns rolled in.

Four

“Thank you,” Fitz said to her the next morning.

After the returns came in, the staffers and everyone went wild. Interns and staffers hugged and cried, and squealed and scattered confetti all over the room. Olivia and Cyrus, sizing up the mood of the campaign, gave everyone two days to get the initial highs out of their system.

Olivia didn’t get drunk, but she couldn’t sleep. She woke up before her smartphone alarmed, skimming through her online newsfeed, seeing pictures of Fitz and Mellie on stage waving to the voters who shared the moment of returns with them. Read the articles about Fitz, and bookmarked those she wanted to take a second look at. Restless, she got dressed, and came into the campaign office to get her bearings. Looked at the map of the continental United States of America, saw the countdown to the days of the election. With dry eraser and markers, she cleaned the old dates and targets, and scribbled in the new. 

Olivia didn’t turn around, as much as she gathered the dry erase markers and put them in their places. 

“You worked hard, took everything on board, you deserve it.” she dare not look at him, as she gathered out of date papers, and dumped them in the recycle bin. 

“And you got me here,” he strode towards her, neatly sidestepping the desks and chairs of the office. “Even Cyrus is quick to admit that you were the one. Once you came on, everything just clicked into place.”

“You’ll be getting assigned Secret Service agents shortly.” Olivia took a step back, storing up as much memories of him as she could take. The laugh lines around his eyes when he smiled. The lines in his forehead when he made faces, usually at Cyrus’ pointed jabs when he and Fitz had their rare disagreements, his chiseled jaw. This morning, he was all casual, dressed in a grey ‘Navy’ sweatshirt and jeans, and trainers. 

“Normally, one hundred and twenty days before the general election,” he said, “but with everything so fraught right now-”

“The sooner the better,” she made her voice as brisk as possible, the finality of tones that tipped off the person you’re with that it was time to leave.

“Olivia,” Fitz stepped right in her path. “I- please don’t go.”

“This can’t-” she closed her eyes briefly, ruthlessly pushing her tears away. She never cried at work. Do it once, and people never looked at you the same again. 

“I love you.”

“ _No_ ,” Olivia whispered, shaking her head, turning away from him. “You’re not being fair. You’re not playing fair.”

“Livvie-” she felt his hands frame her face, and his thumbs stroking her cheeks, and she raised her gaze to his, and saw the truth of his statement there. 

“Don’t.” Olivia wrapped her hands around his wrists, “Don’t say that. I’ll believe you, and- I can’t. I _can’t_. I won’t. Tell me something else.”

Fitz stepped back as if she had slapped him, dropping his hands from her face, and she let his wrists go. 

“What? Livvie- no.” 

Olivia took the opportunity to skip around him, she grabbed her bag and strode to the door, not before she threw the keys to the campaign office at him, unable to see his reaction through her tears.

Five

“Hey guys, look who decided to stop by! Give a warm hello to Mellie Grant, the wife of Governor Fitzgerald Grant III from California, the presumptive Republican nominee running for President of the United States.” Rachael Ray shot her patented high wattage grin at the screen, earning cheers from the TV audience. Mellie at her side, waving at the audience, her fingers bare save her wedding band and engagement rings.

“Thank you for having me,” Mellie placed her hands against her chest, all gracious and overwhelmed with emotion. “I’m so happy to be here,” she briefly linked her fingers together, pearlescent manicure catching the light.

“No, thank you for coming, and a little bird tells me you didn’t show up empty handed.”

“Oh no,” Mellie dipped her hand in her pocket, took out a card sized piece of paper and shook her head, “My momma taught me manners. First visit to someone’s home, you bring a gift.”

Rachael knew how to play the game, and summoned an expression of delighted surprise. “A gift?”

“Passed down from my mother’s mother, to my mother and now me,” Mellie promised with a nod, the fire of her diamonds at her ears catching the light. “Stuffed chicken with orange and cranberry glaze.”

“It sounds complicated.”

“It _sounds_ complicated, but it’s not.”

“Promise?”

Mellie leaned into Rachel's space. Not too close for it to be strange and uncomfortable, but close enough for them to appear that they became instant BFFs.

“ _Promise_.”

“She’s good,” Cyrus said at last, linking his fingers across his middle, his feet propped on the table as he watched the footage on flat TV set into the wall. “She could almost be magnificent.”

Olivia held the remote in hand as she stood beside Cyrus. They were one of the bigger rooms of the campaign office, an informal media room with a flat screen TV on the wall, as well sofas, a water cooler in the corner with paper cups nearby. They were watching the Rachael Ray segment which would air the following day.

“Almost?”

“She’s impatient, constantly working at an angle, and doesn’t see if it will take before she moves on to another one.”

“She’s cooking chicken with orange and cranberry sauce.”

“Changed it from waterbird to chicken, middle of the road meat America knows. Cranberry sauce - traditional.”

“Orange gives it a bit of an edge,” Olivia picked up where Cyrus was going. “Mellie isn’t stupid.”

“No, she isn’t.”

“She’s playing to the gallery,” Olivia said, watching as Rachael and Mellie went over to the counter for the step outs: the various stages of the dish, from raw ingredients portioned and cut up, to the finished dish, presented on the pristine canvas of a white plate with navy blue edging and gilt, all perfect and glossy, garnished with dill. There was the pantomime of oohs, ahhs, turning the dish this way and that. Then the ceremony of the tasting, and declaring it perfect.

“Took off her rings, too.”

There, when Mellie lifted the plate to the audience. It was there, only for a fraction of a second, but Olivia saw it, saw the flaw Cyrus had already pointed out. A frown, before she smoothed it out and smiled, but still.

“It’s a straitjacket for her, Cy.”

“She knew what signing up the campaign meant, what it takes to make a President. She’s a spoke in the wheel, just like you and me. We drive Fitz along; pivot him where he needs to go, shield him from the snares and arrows of bad press, gotcha questions, and alienating low information voters. As for Mellie, she stopped being an individual once Fitz threw his hat into the Presidential fray, and immediately started auditioning for the character of The First Lady. Mellie’s a smart woman, she’ll fall in line.”

***

_“You want me to take off my rings?”_

_“Mellie.”_

_“I know, ‘too individual’,” Mellie repeated, as she waggled her fingers on her right hand. Her hands were made for rings; skin creamy, taut and unblemished, long tapering fingers with oval nails. She worried the ring on the fourth finger of her right hand with the side of her thumb. “When Fitz took up the offer for the Rhodes scholarship, I decided to stay in London for a few weeks. Not Oxford,” Mellie wrinkled her nose. “Too provincial. London had theatre and The City and Harrods and Bond Street. I bought this ring-” the amethyst, aquamarine and peridot stunner that caught Olivia’s eye. “At Heals, I think.”_

_“Mellie, we do not need to go through this again.”_

_“I know,” Mellie raised her hands at shoulder height, as a gesture of capitulation. “Anything to get us there, right? I’d hate to be the one who brought the whole house down because of my taste in jewellery.” With a quick tug at her fingers, she took off the other rings, and deposited them into Olivia’s hand._

_“See that these are sent to Santa Barbara,” Mellie curled her Olivia’s fingers around the rings, and held her fingers there. Just for a minute, the edges of the rings’ settings biting into Olivia’s palm and fingers. “Thank you.”_

_Olivia raised her eyebrows, and gave a short, sharp nod. Mellie let her hands go, and turned to her clothes lain across the bed. She had a shoot in New York today, and Olivia, as one of her jobs had to be there to look at the outfits Mellie had chosen out of all the options the campaign stylists sent along for her to peruse._

_“Why?” Olivia couldn’t help but to ask, as Mellie lifted a jacket from the bed, placed it against her face and pivoted to stare at herself in the mirror, Olivia standing in the background. The jacket a colour of deep wine that picked up the colour of her eyes and hair, a good choice. Also, the colour hinted at Republican red, but not too partisan._

_“Why what?”_

_“You’re smart, you had your own career, but you stepped off the ladder, threw everything into Fitz. Why?”_

_Mellie didn’t say a word, not immediately. She smoothed the jacket across her chest, turning her head to and fro._

_“We’re not friends,” she said at last, not even turning to look at Olivia directly, as their gazes met in the mirror. “But my reasons are as valid as Cyrus’, and in some way, yours. We attach ourselves to greatness, and Fitz is it. You and Cy have no need to worry. I know my role, I’ll play my part. I’ll deliver.” Mellie’s raised eyebrows underscored her point. “Are we done?”_

_“We’re done.”_

Six

“Yes.” Olivia said, as she slipped into the seat opposite Fitz. The two day break over, they were off, bundled on a plane, this time to the Western States. California and Nevada, quick stops and rallies, and a way to shore up votes. Fitz furrowed his brow, before scanning his surroundings, and turning his focus on her. Olivia didn’t flinch at his gaze, although her heart thrilled at how he looked at her. Bold, almost brash, with a tenderness she swore she could almost feel. “I’ll stay until the campaign ends. Once it ends, this ends.” 

“Olivia-” 

With the next few words, Olivia gave up her hard won distance. “I don’t know what this is, what we are,” she placed her hand on the table that sat between them. “I know it’s not what you say it is-” 

_“Liv-”_

“No, it’s not. I’m no young girl, Fitz. I know how this ends.” 

“How,” Fitz said, his voice almost inaudible over the drone of the engine. “How do you know how this story is going to end if we’ve just begun, if it’s _our_ story and no one else’s. Olivia-” 

“This is all I can give you,” and that was true, because she willed it to be so. “You can’t ask me for anything more.” 

__

Fitz brushed his fingers against her knuckles . On the face of it, something innocent, nothing to set tongues wagging or the broadsheets aflame, but it meant something. A tacit acceptance of her terms and conditions, even though she knew on some level that she hurt him. 

__

“Okay,” Fitz said, as their eyes met. “Okay.” 

__

“Okay,” Olivia said, and they both sat there, looking at each other. The potential of what they could _be_ frightened her, but there was no future in it. This way, she’d be free to engage, take as much of him as she dared, as much as he could give, their shared agreement a fail safe. When the campaign ended, they- _this_ would be over, and she could live with that.

__


End file.
